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Updated: May 19, 2025
Sinclair carried the dripping bucket on the side nearest the girl and thereby gained valuable distance. "I'm mighty glad it's you and not one of the rest," confided Sally, still smiling firmly up to him. He avoided that appeal with a grunt. "Like Sandersen, say," went on the girl. "Why not him?" "He's a bad hombre," said the girl. "Hate to have Jig in his hands. With you it's different."
A curse lay on that entire party, and it would not be ended until he, Sandersen, the soul of the enterprise, fell. The moon grew old in the west. Then he took the saddle again and rode, brooding, up the trail, his horse stumbling over the stones as the animal grew wearier in the climb. And then, keeping his gaze fastened above him, he saw the outline of the crests grow more and more distinct.
Somewhere in those mountains Sinclair was lurking, ready for a descent upon Sour Creek. Now Sandersen grew cold. All that was superstitious in his nature took him by the throat. The fate, which he had felt to be fighting with him, he now was equally sure was aligned against him. Otherwise, why had the posse refused to accept him as a member?
Out of the east came a cloud of dust. The restless eye of Sandersen saw it first, and a harsh shout of joy came from the others. Quade was walking. He lifted his arms to the cloud of dust as if it were a vision of mercy. To Hal Sinclair it seemed that cold water was already running over his tongue and over the hot torment of his foot.
A moment later he was on his knees, and the flame of the sulphur match sputtered a blue light into the dead face of Quade, staring upward to the stars. Bill Sandersen remained there until the match singed his finger tips. All doubt was gone now. Lowrie and Quade were both gone; and he, Sandersen, alone remained, the third and last of the guilty.
The posse had been brought to Sour Creek by fate in order that he, Sandersen, might enlist in its ranks and help in the great work of running down Sinclair, for, after all, it was work primarily to his own interest. There was something ironically absurd about it.
Cartwright was coming out with a black face, as Sandersen entered. The former turned at the door and faced Kern and the four assistants of the sheriff. "I'll tell you what you'll do, you wise gents," he growled. "You'll miss him altogether. You hear?" And then he stamped down the hall. Sandersen carefully removed his hat as he went in.
What save blind fate could have stepped into the mind of Sinclair and made him keep Cold Feet from the rope, when that hanging would have removed forever all suspicion that Sinclair himself had killed Quade? Another man would have attributed both of those actions to common decency in Sinclair, but Sandersen always hunted out more profound reasons.
He reached for his own gun, only to see, over the rock above him, the grinning face of Sandersen arise. "Too late, Arizona," called the tall man. "Too late for one job, partner, but just in time for the next!" Arizona cursed softly, steadily, through snarling lips. "What job?" "Sinclair! He's gone, but he'll be back any minute. And it'll need us both to down him, Arizona.
Off among the hills the echo was repeated to a faint whisper. Arizona dropped the revolver carelessly on the ground. "Fatty, you've gone nutty," said Sandersen. "I'll tell you a yarn," said Arizona. Sandersen looked past him to the east. The light was growing rapidly about the mountains. In another moment or so that sunrise which he had been looking forward to with such solemn dread, would occur.
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